Another Run-In With the Law

I’ve now experienced being profiled. On Friday night, I went to watch a cover band of The Misfits. I can’t remember the connection, whether it was my friend’s friend who was in the band, or a friend of my friend’s friend, or just some other acquaintance, but that’s how I found out about it. And of course, they played their set in a bar. I’m not a big Misfits fan, but it was kind of fun. But, on the way home, I drove into a police checkpoint on Redwood Road. I didn’t know what it was all about, but I pulled up to the nearest station and rolled down my window.

Me: Hello Officer.
Officer: Hello, where are you coming from?
Me: Downtown, I’m just heading home.
Officer: What were you up to tonight?
Me: I was at a bar. (Thinking to myself, “Stupid, you should have said a concert”.)
Officer: When was the last time you drank?
Me: Never.
Officer: Never?
Me: That’s right.
Officer: Will you follow me into the parking lot?

As I followed the officer into the parking lot, I was a little bit nervous. I was really tired and I wasn’t sure how well I would do at walking a tightrope. And was it possible to fail a breathalyzer test from second hand smoke? But then I thought to myself, “This guy just accused me of lying. I don’t like being accused of lying. Anyway, it’s probably a good thing that these guys are out here to catch the real offenders.”

Officer: Will you please step out of the car, Sir?
Me: Sure.
Officer: So you’ve never had a drink before?
Me: Nope.
Officer: Okay, put your feet together, hands at your side, and follow the end of this pen while I shine my flashlight in your eyes (Okay, he didn’t really say that last phrase).
Me: Okay.
Officer: Well, you’ve passed that test and I don’t smell any alcohol on you….
Me: (In my thought) that’s because I didn’t drink!
Officer: …but I better have you take one more test anyway.
Me: Okay.
Officer: Now, I’m going to have you breath into this tube, notice I didn’t touch the end you’ll use.
Me: That’s fine.
Officer: No, I need you to blow into the tube.
Me: Sorry, I thought you said to breath in it.
Officer: No, blow. (I could have put out my grandpa’s birthday cake.) Okay, you passed. You can keep that tube.
Me: Like a souvenir?

Yep, I passed. I got back in my car and started to drive home. When I was almost there I thought to myself that I didn’t get my license back. After checking my pockets, my wallet, under the seat, everywhere, I still couldn’t find it. So, I turned around and went back to the police checkpoint. Up until this point, I was okay with being profiled. I mean, the likelihood that a single 30-ish looking guy that is driving home from a bar at 1am would be drunk driving is probably greater than a pizza delivery guy at 6pm. But then I got back to the checkpoint and I noticed that there were about 20 policemen inside this little building eating donuts and another 20 out manning the checkpoint, all of whom were getting time and a half. I had to ask around for the officer that chose me, and sure enough, he was in on break.

Me: I didn’t get my license back.
Officer: Well, is it in your pockets?
Me: (Acting stupid and checking my pockets again.) No, it’s not in my pockets.
Officer: How about your car?
Me: No, I just checked there and didn’t see it.
Officer: Maybe you dropped it where you parked.
Me: Yea, that’s an idea, let’s go check.
Officer: I’m not sure what you would have done with it.
Me: Me neither, I don’t see it here.
Officer: (Checking his pockets) Oh, here it is.
Me: Thanks. Have a good night.
Officer: Drive safe.

Okay, I was starting to get a little fired up. This checkpoint was being handled by twice as many cops as it needed, all being paid with my taxes, and the guy had the typical smug police attitude and wouldn’t even apologize for having my license in his pocket, but it was partly my fault for not asking for it, so I just got in my car and left. But, as I left, out comes another cop car that proceeds to tail me half way home. I mean, I passed all their tests, and they forgot my card, and now they figured they had to follow me and run my plates through their system to see what came up. Give me a break. I need to move back to the east side

Game Night!

The glorious banner of Game Night has often been met with stiff opposition from monetary duty and household cleanliness. As endless nights pass with the constant hum of Infant-42’s flying overhead and the relentless bombardments of poopy diapers, our sanctums of colored mini cubed stratagem have often been blasted to rubble. Other tactics of priority and that most evil of enemies, a life too busy, have all but extinguished this candle of tradition. In my own life, for instance, the Pinochle games of my youth were interrupted by one of the game’s member’s relocation to Costa Rica. And even when he returned, our subsequent games of Hero Quest and Magic were halted by my own move to Mexico. This piercing of its jugular was nearly the end of it, as our members soon became scattered across the globe. Interspersed among long droughts, we occasionally had a game night that seemed more of a memorial than an actual event. But for those who believe, scrubbing the floors all night with a toothbrush is well worth the chance of only a few moments of late night gaming on the fourth Thursday in November. Hope conjures miracles. And this case was no different. Soon, a member of my gaming group was introduced to a little game involving the harvest of wheat, wool, grain, brick, and ore. This little beauty kindled in him a thirst for gaming that I feel cannot be quenched. Behind his leadership we had four years of Boise and Holiday peace. But peace never lasts, and the stenchy breath of war was breathing down our necks. The sinking ship of the S.S. Cookie Company required our fearless leader to jump ship for Africa and the abysmal distance of the Atlantic once again broke through our lines of defense. Fortunately, technology has improved since my youth to a point at which games can now be played over great distances. An advance which I believe has been fueled in no small part by the ranks of our cause. But I have been unable to participate. My Fuehrer CEO and his Third Reich of Upper Management have instructed its Secret Service IT department to snuff out anything with even a thread of hope or glimmer of amusement. Just as classic vinyl is broken for no other reason than having the same beat as a distress call, so too are the vast majority of internet sights blocked. I feel your pain Amadeus! (Or was it Wolfgang?) As in so many other instances, I once again am the weakest link. When all seemed lost, my broheim, the Patton of noble diversion and Montgomery of unassuming victory, rode in on his Sherman with a plan of attack that was clearly inspired by the subterranean procession of the United State’s internal conflict of the 1860’s. Indeed our cause is as encumbered as ever, but place two fingers on its neck and you will feel a slight pulse, one beating to the rhythm of our anthem, kept alive, if by nothing else than the memory of wind blowing across our fingers as we shuffle the cards. Maybe if I clap my hands and scream out it will bring this little guy back to life? Viva Game Night! Viva!

Nice

Here is a blog I started to write a while ago, but couldn't figure out how to finish. If you don't mind feeling like you've been left hanging a little bit, you can read this for a break in your day.

“Nice”, now there’s a compliment I could get used to. Thirty years of being “nice” is just the tip of the iceberg on this gem. When I hear its familiar rat-ti-tat-tat across my hull, I know it’s soon time to take a dive into the icy depths of never call me anymore. The razor-like chill of those waters is just like coming home. “Nice” is one arrow I’m glad to have in my quiver. Even better is when that supercompliment brings along its sidekick, the long drawn out “Soooo”. As soon as I’m distracted by the misty eyes and tilted head of the long drawn out “Soooo”, in comes a quick karate chop of “Nice”. If “nice” were a southwestern condiment, I wouldn’t be mild, or medium, but “Soooo”. Here are just a few of the perks of being nice. (Imagine me counting these out on my fingers.) First, I get to take out hundreds of other guys’ girlfriends so that they can make their boyfriends jealous that they’re not with them that night. Plus, I don’t have to waste all that money on myself. Second, upon approaching a girl, if I hear the word “nice”, I no longer have to worry about getting nasty calluses on my fingers from putting her number into my phone. Third, on most Saturday nights I can watch a nice game of basketball, while other less fortunate arrogant mysterious types keep those beautiful women at bay. Fourth, the few beautiful women that I do know would feel safe enough around me to cuddle up under a nice blanket and read a nice piece of poetry without any worries of wondering hands. Fifth, I get to be the backup boyfriend to hundreds. Not just plan B or plan C, but somewhere near the bottom of the totem pole. (Probably near N, for nice.) Sixth, married women tell me how nice I am, and at one point were even great enough to marry the teasing jerk to leave more of us nice guys for the rest of the girls. Seventh, great girls that I would like to hang out with think I’m so nice that they want to set me up with their friends. . . . . . trailing off into writers block, kerplooie!

A Near Disaster

I recently purchased new t-shirts and underwear. Since they are new, they are really big and drown me. They need to be put through some wash cycles so they shrink down a little. But today I am wearing a brand spanking new pair. This morning, I took a break to use the restroom and when I unzipped and reached for the hole, I couldn’t find the hole. I was a little startled and reached again, but still no hole. I tend to jump to conclusions, so the first thing that came to my mind was that I had put my underwear on backwards. My eyes widened in terror as I looked over my shoulders to see if anyone else was in the rest room. Thankfully, I was alone so that I could slap myself in the forehead. I really didn’t want to go into the stall to remedy the situation, because I would have to stand there wearing nothing buy my shirt. Plus, I could just imagine some guy peaking under the stall to see if it was occupied, and after seeing nothing but a pair of shoes and my bare legs, conjuring up wild images of some cross dresser in the stall hiking up his skirt to use the head. I groaned and assessed the situation further. To my relief, what had really happened was that my new t-shirt is so long that it was overlapping the hole so I couldn’t find the hole. I pumped my fist and let out a hoot. As I washed my hands I had some hesitation of leaving the restroom in fear that someone in the lobby had overheard my shout and drawn the conclusion that I was just overjoyed from being able to go at all because of an enlarge prostate. I decided to bury my chin in my chest as I took the walk of shame across the lobby and up the stairs to my office. The tellers or secretaries could have been snickering as I did so, but I wouldn’t have really cared if they had.

Random Thoughts

I recently read an article about a study that was done on obesity, I think from the Wall Street Journal, but now I can’t remember for sure. But anyway, this study claimed that obesity is actually a social epidemic. It claimed that if you have friends that are overweight, that you are more likely to be overweight as well. People that you work with or who live near you didn’t matter as much as a close friend, even if that person lived several states away. I thought it was an interesting article, but wasn’t sure how accurate it really was, since I have several friends who are husky gentlemen, and I still seem to be a bit wiry. In the end, I tossed it aside as an entertaining article to read one weekday during lunch and hadn’t thought of it since. But this Sunday, that article crept back to mind as I watched the general conference of my church. Throughout the conference, the choir performed several times as the cameras panned through its members and I couldn’t help but notice that the majority of them were overweight. At first I thought maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me because of the unflattering blue dresses that they wore, or my mother’s widescreen TV, or the rumor that television adds ten pounds, or all three. I even tried to convince myself that this trifecta could have a summing effect to make them all look 30 pounds heavier than they actually are. But even then I couldn’t help but think that this choir would be an excellent subject group for just such a study on obesity. These people fit the mold of the study, since they are probably all close friends, since they are required to spend a good majority of their free time practicing and performing together. And, its members come from all over, so they more than likely don’t all live close together either. And if this evidence truly was present, then the choir could be good evidentiary support for this particular author’s conclusion. Now, I’m not trying to say that they were all overweight, because several of them were rather skinny, but I’m sure that if you plotted the BMI of each of the choir’s members, the distribution curve would be negatively skewed. My church is known for having root beer floats after every social event, and if the choir is having refreshments after each practice and performance I thought it a good idea that they mix in a veggie trey to their menu selection.

And now, since I will most likely be struck dead by lightning momentarily, I bid you all a due. (-Click-)

Mr. Bluuuurg

I have a question. Why does everyone take the “hannes” out of Johannesburg to leave just the Joburg? Sure, Jo can wake you up in the morning, and it can be a great dinner to “Eat At”, but it’s pretty generic. And Burg sounds smug. I expect some old butler in a starched out tuxedo to look down his nose at me to say that “Mr. Buuuuurg” will see me now. Hannes, on the other hand, sounds completely gnarly, like a soccer player that is so good he only needs one name, or a compliment given to a guitar player after a sweet riff, or even something Brody would have said while plummeting to his death at the end of Pointe Break. “Vye-uh con Dee-Os Brody, that wuz utterly hannes, man”. Johannesburg without the “hannes” seems like a PBJ without any PB or J, just two dry pieces of wheat bread. Maybe when people ask me about my brother, I can leave off the Jo and the Burg and just tell them that he is on assignment in Hannes. That would be fun, kind of like licking the double stuff out of an Oreo. And then when they look at me and say, “Party on, Wayne”, I can look back and say, “Party on, Garth”. Hannes would be my vote, if there were votes for such things.

Hello Nurse! (I hope.)

So I’ve had this weird thing going on with my throat, so my doctor referred me to an ENT. I went to my ENT appointment on Tuesday and it turns out I have an ulcer on one of my vocal cords from acid reflux. Who knew? I don’t even get heart burn. Anyway, that’s nothing to really write home about, other than the fact that he put a fiber optic scope up my nose, around the corner, and down my throat to check things out and I felt like I was Neo from the Matrix. That and he gave me some pills to take. I hate pills! Yesterday I was able to get one down, but this morning I went through about a liter of water and the only thing that happened was the pill started to dissolve in my mouth and I spit it in the garbage and I had to pee four times before lunch. I hate pills! Yes, I’m using the word “hate” about pills. Why couldn’t he prescribe me some shots, or even some suppositories? Ugh.

That’s not the real story though, so I better stop stalling. The day after my appointment, someone from the doctor’s office leaves me a message asking me to call her back. Thinking it was some issue with my insurance, I called her back, but she didn’t have an official medical request at all. But instead, she asked if she could set me up with her friend from the office. She then proceeds to tell me how wonderful, and marvelous, and fantastic this girl is, just like anyone who ever sets up anyone with anyone does. While she’s shpealling off her resume to me, I’m putting two and two together in my head.

“What in the world”, I thought to myself, “this girl who I’ve never even met and just happened to notice me in the office yesterday went through the trouble to pull my file, check my marital status, and then call me up out of the blue. There are several possible causes for such an outcome. First, she could have thought it pathetic to notice me whimpering in fear at the thoughts of Morpheus plugging me into the Matrix, and took pity on me to boost my confidence. Second, her friend is Ugly Betty and this girl calls up every guy between the ages of 25 and 54 that checks single on their medical history. Third, whoever her friend is happened to mention to her that she thought I should comb my hair and decided to play a prank on her friend. Fourth, she happened to notice my posterior tautness and since she’s married wanted to have a vicariously good time with this hunk. –pause in thought– Nah, there’s probably only three possible causes for such an outcome. But still, that’s pretty flattering that she would want to set me up even though she only knew me by sight. I better say yes. Here’s hoping her friend looks like Trinity”.

Yea, I know, that’s a lot to process in a thirty-second phone call, but that’s how my mind works: mock speed in comparison to my tongue. So when it was finally my turn to open my mouth and voice my thoughts, all that really came out was, “Umm, sure, huh, huh”. I ended up calling her later that night and she seemed nice enough. But, I’m going to Las Vegas this weekend to watch the Utes play UNLV, so I told her that I would call her again when I got back in town to set something up.

For those of you that doubt the number of blind dates I’ve been on, let this serve as evidence, even complete strangers who I’ve never even said hello to will find a way.

To be continued . . . maybe . . . if you’re lucky . . .